


hold up your hands for misinterpretation

by TheHiddenPassenger



Category: EDM, Electronic Dance Music RPF, Pendulum/Knife Party
Genre: Abandon Ship, Begin Again, EDC Vegas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHiddenPassenger/pseuds/TheHiddenPassenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a semi-recent tweet by Rob Swire regarding the misinterpretation of the tone for one of their songs (Begin Again), on Knife Party's debut album "Abandon Ship."</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold up your hands for misinterpretation

**Author's Note:**

> Let's see...err, no sex, no uber gayness...very asexual friendly, especially if you're one who's offended by excessive smut. I might be the smut lord, but I know when to be classy. No one's doin' the knock-knock over a set of Pioneers, a'ight? Just some contemplative friendship stuff, very platonic, first person, Gaz narrating (again).

The crowd is ready for us. They’ve taken everything we’ve thrown at them and they’re screaming for more, roaring and cheering, a moving sea of humanity, sweat, booze, all kinds of drugs and even a few tears. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen a fan crying at one of our shows—it’s weird. It’s like, some of them are here for the party…

And some of them feel it, the way we do.

The track switch is seamless. We’ve been doing this shit for more than half our lives. That might have been an exaggeration during the Pendulum days, but now I’m starting to realize the truth of it. I’ve spend almost fifteen years at his side, making music in one form or another, but always ending behind a keyboard. He’s the most brilliant, gifted producer I’ve ever met. Rob is nigh-untouchable, not just now, behind this barrier and the table, but in terms of raw talent and obsessive dedication.

It breaks my heart sometimes, to see how much he hurts, how much he bleeds—metaphorically speaking—for what we do. Long, practiced fingers dance over the dials and knobs, practically swatting mine out of the way. It’s better that I have the mic right now, if nothing else to introduce a tentative teaser from the album that’s set to drop in October—lord willing.

“Lemme see those hands up!” My voice comes out choked, hoarse. I’ve been shouting a while, now, so it’s no wonder. That lump in my throat isn’t from whooping up a crowd, however. My partner glances sideways at me for half a moment, brilliant blue behind thick, black lashes. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking right now, not when I need to focus on the crowd.

No one in the massive throng notices the subtle flick of his eyes, or probably even my hoarse discomfort. The flush on my cheeks could be anything from sun exposure to adrenaline. I mimic the action I’ve just ordered the crowd to perform and drop the microphone back to my fuzzy, really-needing-a-shave lips.

“This one’s for you, Vegas! My EDC family—” A breath separates this and the next sentence. “This one’s for _you_!”

And, in a way, it _is_. Everything we do is for them. It’s for the sweat and tears, the screams and pumping rhythm. The way I understand it, if the music makes them move, it’s done the job we intended it to do and I am satisfied. For Rob, I think it’s a little different. The music has to move _him_.

When Porter released _Sea of Voices_ , I remember sitting in the studio with headphones on and eyes closed, listening to it. Rob had that shit on repeat; he couldn’t get enough. Of course, he’d eventually wear himself out, but for the first week—well, he Tweeted about it, so I guess that’s indication enough. The movement, the feeling and soul of it has to be there; else it’s done no good.

Rob himself has admitted to me that many of his tracks are just filler, and you can feel it. Some of them—particularly the ones the labels like, go figure—seem to be just riddled with hooks and devoid of feeling. This one is not like that. This one is special, it’s different.

For the first time in almost three years, the world will hear Rob Swire’s voice again.

This is the source of that incorrigible lump in my throat. The fucker just won’t go away. It’s not a proud parent feeling; it’s never been that with him. Something about his voice, just his voice—never mind the rest of the guy. It’s unpolished, raw, strong, but weak at the same time. Rob’s singing voice carries his feelings like his speaking voice never could. It’s always sounded the same, too, which is peculiar, and kinda rare, I guess.

When he speaks, he comes off condescending, irritated, tired, and downright unamused. What interviewers see is a jerk producer who just doesn’t want to talk to them. If only they knew how much it tortures him to sit there and answer inane questions. God knows I do my best to shield him, but everyone wants to talk to the power behind Pendulum.

I just want my friend to enjoy himself.

The tiny smile on his face tells me he is. The flush on his cheeks tells me he’s proud. The twinkle in blue eyes tells me he is—on this rare occasion in 30-odd years of life—satisfied with something he’s done and presented onstage. I don’t know how long it will last, but I thank whatever god is listening for this blessed span of time.

His voice tears through the loud silence of the bumping bass and howling crowd. They are stunned to hear him sing. The smile stays planted on his lips as his fingers fly across our board. I’m not even going to try touching this one. It’s all him.

This song—tentatively, he’s calling it _Begin Again_ —is like nothing we’ve ever done, Pendulum or Knife Party. While Rob doesn’t consider the lyrics particularly uplifting, the chord progression is definitely in the positive direction. It feels like something is opening up, renewing itself, being resurrected, maybe.

But for resurrection, the old has to be abandoned.

I hear the shrieks of ten thousand people, delighted to experience his vocals again. My heart soars with theirs. I can feel it hammering in my chest. I’m so hot, so sweaty, so excited, the lump in my throat doesn’t seem so gargantuan any more. Onstage, we put our souls out there, tying them up like some poor kid’s underwear to the school’s flagpole, bare for the scrutiny of anyone who gives enough of a shit to look.

These people certainly do.

“Alright, pump up, people…!” The microphone feels natural, an extension of my arm. “From the left to the right; from the front to the back—Are you ready!?”

It’s a rhetorical question. They are ready. They are open and willing to receive whatever we have for them. Conversely, we’re ready to give them all we’ve got. Rob never does anything halfway. If there’s something I’ve learned about him as long as we have been friends, it’s that he never leaves something undone. When he finishes, he does it with a bang. The concept that this album will be our first—and possibly last—as Knife Party—seems appropriate, then, given the tenor of the show and the circumstances.

Then, I count off the next measure. “One-two, one-two-three--!”

The roar of the crowd is deafening, absolutely, fucking deafening; it nearly knocks me on my ass. Rob reaches over and tugs at my elbow, motioning that he wants to speak to me. He has removed one earpiece to communicate. I lean toward him, placing my ear where his mouth is going to be. The motion is routine, our usual setup for speaking during a set.

His lips move against the flesh of my ear and jaw. He’s saying something, discussing the transition. It’s kind of a courtesy thing, as this whole set is his brainchild. Rob is good at letting me have my say, but I know a genius when I see one; I live with _this_ particular musical brainiac, so whatever he says is good with me. I nod, smile and lean back to my place, sliding an earpiece on to check sound.

He wants to transition the song to _Internet Friends_ , something familiar, if abusive—but if we don’t do that, we’re not Knife Party. There’re a lot of things that make our shows unique to us, or maybe to him. For example, Rob has a certain affection for the electronic female voice that appears in both our new and old shit. I’ve always thought it’s kinda weird, but whatever; it fucking sounds good. He elbows me again.

“Wot?” I mouth, leaning over anyway. The musical genius is at it. I know he wants to work _LRAD_ in here someplace. “Next?”

He nods. I know the look. It’s pure mischief. The drop will be psychotic, unexpected and unmistakably Rob. His live mixes are fucking unparalleled; they make mine look like a kindergartener got a hold of our Pioneers.

Which is why I don’t fucking understand why I’m supposed to be doing a couple of sets in Aruba in early September, alone. It’s a couple months away, but the thought nags at the back of my head, and I know it’s on his mind, too. I can see the panic behind the apathy everyone else gets to observe when he and I go in for an interview.

He will have time to finish up _Abandon Ship_ , put the polishing, finishes on it, tweak tracks and decide the final order of it all. It’s a good opportunity, sure, but why overbook us and force a separation? I’m not saying he needs me to finish the album, but the guy gets a little crazy when he’s left alone too long.

The remainder of the set rumbles from track to track, sometimes allowing us to switch off. He grabs a drink; I step back and stretch, or grab the mic and whoop the crowd into a frenzy. It’s a routine, and a damn good one. Everyone moves the way we want them to. We give, they receive—they demand more, we deliver.

We are Knife Party and we are on top of the world.

Afterward, when the stage is dark and the crowd has been convinced to leave, we make our merry way through the Electric Daisy Carnival to watch some other sets. He’s got a water bottle in one hand, with the other swinging free. I point out a set, Afrojack or some shit, and he nods.

“I’m down,” Rob grunts in response. The guy communicates like that, mouth barely moving, and just enough sound coming out to convey his meaning. His singing is altogether different, though. He’s actually got a pretty good-sized mouth, which has always surprised me. As my eyes are once more drawn to his free hand, he stuffs it in his pocket and glances over one narrow shoulder at me.

The question is non-verbal, but he’s asking what’s up. My head waggles helplessly side to side, unable to come up with a proper response, because even I don’t know what’s going through my mind. I’m so fucking buzzed on the hype from the set, normal thoughts don’t occur to me until it’s too damn late. I grasp the elbow of Rob’s jacket and tug him closer.

He loops his arm through mine without glancing sideways, taking a drink from the nigh-empty water bottle as though nothing has shifted between us. Maybe nothing has. Maybe it’s always been this way. Maybe it’ll always be this way. The sounds of cheering and wild, electronic music drown any more rational thoughts and we shove our way backstage to the next set, arm-in-arm and all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back, but never wrapped it up... even now I'm moderately dissatisfied with the ending, but that's life. I keep getting into Gaz's head (like in "Antidote") which is odd, considering, if you know me, I'm primarily a Rob--not my personality, per se, but... I've been told I'm convincing.


End file.
